Profit C

i smile against the mushroom cloud
the dark fogs fear my steel-tipped laughter

and still
they knock him down again
(and by him I mean me of course)
and they beat him
and call him foul names in booming ugly voices
and they rip his clothes
and tear his hair out

all the time shouting evil secrets that no sane ear can hold
all the while spinning in tighter circles
at the end
the vultures round wound
and down fell the dusk sun to evening

I still kick against the walls
I never learned it from my mother,
to stop.
to stop kicking against the womb that nurtures you
to stop ripping out the strings that bind you to the heart of the world

All I have left to kick with now though,
Back-broken and tired old man as I am,
All I have left are these few chuckles
Precious shells in my gun,
Blasted ever outward
A star consuming the universe